The Nature of Quiet Desperation
by mindlessmadness
Summary: OneShot. Early in the morning on June 8th, Pam thinks. My first Office fic.


**A/N**: My very first Office fic. I have tons of Office story ideas wandering my mind, but for some reason this one just wouldnt leave me alone.It's also my first try at anything angsty, so any reviews telling me how i did in that regard would be wonderful.

**Disclaimer**: Although theres a possibility im obsessed, i own nothing Office related. Not even a t-shirt. Now i really want an Office t-shirt...

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The moon, full and shining, fills the cloudless, cool summer night. The small town of Scranton, Pennsylvania, seems softer, less harsh and industrial, under its glow. It overwhelms with its presence, and leaves many a figure stumbling to close bedroom shutters and drapes, blocking out its penetrating white light.

Through one such bedroom window, a sleeping couple is illuminated. Well, a half sleeping couple. The man, large, strong, and snoring loudly, lies facing away from the light, nearly all the blankets pulled in around him. The woman, though she curls her body to resemble one lost in dreams, stares silently at the white moon.

Her eyes are sad and lost, as they flick from the window to an alarm clock stationed beside her. The glowing red numbers switch suddenly.

4:35 am, it reads. June 8th, 2006.

Pam Beesly presses her hazel eyes shut for a moment and sighs deeply. Earlier that evening, she had fought to sleep, imagined herself floating off to dream that things were how they should be. How she wanted them to be.

"But," she thinks, "Those things aren't the same anymore. The way you want your life to be, the things that will make you happy, they aren't what should, what will, happen. And there's nothing you can do about it."

But Pam doesn't want to acknowledge that last bit. So, instead, she thinks of him.

His smile is the first thing to come to mind. So warm, so mischievous… like a kid trapped in a grown mans body. She adores his smile, especially when it's at something she said.

Next, his eyes. Expressive, bright, alive. Usually rolling at some stupid comment made by their boss, or crinkling in mirth, or gazing at her…

She can't pretend that she hasn't noticed how he looks at her.

Thoughts of him come in a blur now as images flow through her head. She thinks of his laugh, his humor, his height, his kindness; his hair gets a special extra moment as she smiles over its boyish cut. She moves on, to his hands, his thoughtfulness, his intelligence…

…His lips…

She was drunk, very drunk, she knows, but sometimes vague recollection, somewhere between real memory and fantasy, of her mouth on his will strike, lighting her up from the inside out. She always pushes the feeling away, but now, for a second, she lets herself be taken over.

She smiles dreamily as her hazy memory washes over her, filling her with joy and completion. Then, Pam glances at the clock, and freezes.

4:37.

A little shaky moan escapes her as she remembers why she's laying her, in the moonlit early morning, awake and alone.

_"What time are you leaving tomorrow?" she had asked, trying desperately to fill the raw, anxious silence between them. For a moment, it had seemed to work._

_"4:40. In the morning." He had replied, laughing slightly._

_"Ouch."_

_"Yeah, I know. But hey, saving 100 bucks is worth it."_

_She had looked at him and smiled for what felt like the first time in ages. Talking to him, being near him, just seemed so right. But she hadn't said anything, had held back the last minute words that threatened her, hoping not to ruin this moment._

_"You're not going to get any sleep." She had instead matter-o-factly replied._

_"There's a reason they're called red-eyes." He answered, smiling back at her._

And then the words had run dry. And the quiet had returned. Only now, it was a resigned silence that had settled around them. He was leaving, she wasn't stopping him, and it was too late. She hadn't thought then that she too would be awake all night.

"When he gets back, you'll be married." Pam thinks. And so she turns her thoughts to the sleeping form beside her. But not before another glance at the clock.

4:38. But for how much longer she doesn't know.

Roy is sound asleep, and snoring to prove it. She watches him solemnly and silently. She notices that he has stolen the blankets, again.

"Even asleep, he's inconsiderate." She thinks. "I bet _he_ wouldn't do that."

This is unfair, she knows, but Pam can't help herself.

Roy has always taken care of her, has been there through thick and thin. For the past ten years, he has been her steady, comforting, rock. And she does know that, even if he doesn't show fully, he has always loved her.

But all of these things, she knows he could do too. He could be there for her, be her rock, and take care of her. And he would also support her in everything, always. Believe in her. Guide her. Let her shine, let her be herself, let her live, finally. The things Roy does along with the things he never has.

And through it all, he would always, always love her.

"Yes." Pam thinks. "He loves me. He always has. And I… I love him."

"I love Jim. I always have."

To her right, there is a blink of red. She turns her head slowly, and the clock stares back at her, unrelentingly cruel in its statement.

4:40.

Somewhere nearby, a plane takes off. Pam can almost feel it leave, feel him leave, headed to Australia. And he, she realized, will never know about this night, and how she feels. How she lay awake, bathed in moonlight, thinking of him. Jim will never know.

Because in two days time she's getting married. And just like she wasn't able to, in the end, wasn't willing, to stop him from leaving, Jim wont be there to stop her. And she knows she wont, cant, end it herself.

It's too late.

And so Pam Beesly turns from her window and buries her face in her pillow, silent tears leaking into the fabric.

Desperately, achingly, she cries herself to sleep.

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Did you like it? If you did, if you didnt, please review. You have no idea (actually, you probably do) how much they make me smile.


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